


A Bottle or Two of Orlesian Red

by aban_asaara



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Fluff, King Alistair, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: It’s lonely, being king, as it turns out.





	A Bottle or Two of Orlesian Red

**Author's Note:**

> [theeighthtitan](http://theeighthtitan.tumblr.com/) asked for “a kiss bc I don't have words right now” or “a tipsy kiss” for Alistair/f!Warden so I went with both. :D

Alistair drains his cup of wine, then pours himself another one—his second, as it is, or maybe his third?—frowning when a mere trickle drips to the bottom of the goblet. **  
**

“That’s a crime of lèse-majesté, you know,” he tells the offending bottle as he pulls himself to his feet before tottering to the door of his bedchamber and heading to the cellar. “Or is it treason? Either way, be content you’re not—you know— _alive_ , because I could have you hanged.”

It’s lonely, being king, as it turns out. No one just has a pint of ale with the King of Ferelden: everything turns into some stately meeting the instant he steps into the room, crown or not, and when everything down to which spoon he picks up first is cause for scandal, he usually finds himself worrying whether Teagan’s eyes might _actually_ bore holes into his head this time. Were she here, he would have pulled his queen into bed with him, and doubtless there would be as much wine spilled on the sheets as they’d manage to drink. But she isn’t, so no one’s kept him from issuing the royal decree permitting him to indulge his loneliness for once with a bottle or two of Orlesian red.

The sad truth is that he needs her more than she, him. Thanks to Her Majesty’s courage and fortitude, Amaranthine held against the brunt of the Darkspawn army, while he’s stuck behind his castle walls, whining about the wine.

 _Whining_ to _the wine_ , he amends, _which isn’t exactly better_.

At least before Duncan recruited him, other Templar recruits were always willing to sneak out of the barracks to toss back a mug of ale or two in some Bournshire watering hole. And few nights among the Grey Wardens don’t start with the sound of bottles being uncorked, their homebrewed spirits potent enough to ward off Darkspawn—a necessity if they’re to serve as chasers for their nightmares and grief.

And did Duncan’s last recruit have grief to chase when she first came to Ostagar, hard and closed-off like a shell. Doubtless the Teyrn of Highever’s daughter hadn’t ever drunk anything like the rotgut that passed as drink among the ranks of the Order: her pretty face paled and her nose wrinkled when she took a whiff of whatever brew was in Brendan’s flask, yet she closed her eyes and took a swig, gagging afterwards. “That’s worse than the Joining,” she said, voice strangled, and Alistair couldn’t help but laugh at that Maker-given spark of wit in the midst of so much wretchedness.

Now he wonders if that wasn’t the moment when he—well, “fell in love” may be too strong for what he felt then, but it was certainly the first step down that slope.

 _Down that cliff, more like,_ he’d tease if she were here. “It was only a small cliff,” she’d say, pouting her lip.

Maker’s breath, but he misses her.

Half a cup of wine and she gets tipsy, lightweight that she is, a flush creeping up her cheeks and brightening her eyes. Once when dreams of the Archdemon had woken them both, she stole into Wynne’s tent, not even disturbing the mage’s light snoring before she emerged with a flask of red wine, beaming in triumph. “I gave it to her,” she said with a wink. “I’m allowed.” They drank straight from the bottle, lips pressed where the other’s had just been, sitting side by side in front of the campfire. Alistair didn’t even yet feel the effects of the wine by the time she started speaking in rough whispers, thinking she was quiet, clasping her hand to her mouth after each guffaw, always a little too late.

Well, that was on a good day, anyway. Some nights the wine stilled her as though she’d been sculpted out of stone, something at the bottom of her eyes burning hotter than the flames of the campfire.

How had Arl Howe called her again? _Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire_ , a voice from the past supplies as it slithers across his memory. Alistair shudders despite himself, remembering the clench of her jaw and the wild fury of her gaze before the Arl fell, riddled with her arrows.

He shoves the thought aside when he reaches the gate that led to the ramparts. The sentinels posted on either side open the way for him, and even through the visor of the helmets Alistair can guess the confused glances they cast each other. _Not to worry_ , he thinks as the gate swings closed behind him. _Just the king on his midnight stroll_.

A sobering gust of wind howls past him on its way northward from the Brecilian Forest. There they partook of the Dalish _hahren_ ’s stories and homemade blackberry wine, he remembers, its warmth welcome after the winding turns of the ruins that lie deep in the forest. The wine stained her lips crimson—and her tongue, as he had the delight to find out later that night—and tasted even sweeter kissed from her mouth. _Can’t say the same of the dwarven brew we had in Orzammar, though,_ he reflects, tucking his chin down and lifting the collar of his shirt as he strides along the rampart. Their heads still too full of what they’d seen in the Deep Roads, they snuck out of the Royal Palace, shunning its too-tall, arched stone vaults in favour of the Commons to join Tapster’s revelry. Oghren taught them a dwarven drinking song—with certain choice substitutions, Alistair suspects—and there she spent the night (presumably? hard to tell underground) spinning faster than his head did as she danced with Corra, laughing as she dodged his kisses after he downed a glass of deep-mushroom liquor, until at last she slumped against him and wept in the crook of his shoulder.

It all feels like so long ago. Everything felt different already when they returned to Denerim—yet when he took her to the Gnawed Noble, the ale still had the same strong, oaky taste even from her lips, as though served from the very same cask as the last time he was there. And then when they stumbled to one of the rooms on the second floor of the tavern, where they grew bold (and likely more than a little bit loud, not having to worry about being overheard through the canvas of their tent), it dawned on him that nothing had changed so much as _he_ did.

And that was _before_ the Landsmeet.

How dense did he have to be then to miss the fact that she had the making of a queen—certainly more than he did that of a king, Calenhad’s blood be damned? Of _course_ the girl who routinely lifts curses and brokers peace and crowns kings would best wear a crown herself.

Andraste help him, though, if he doesn’t hate at least a little bit how his own crown keeps him away from her.

Alistair stops. Torchlight flickers between the crenels like Fade fires; the hounds are barking below the ramparts, and the wind is carrying voices past him, too swift to make out. He’s halfway down the stone staircase before his wine-addled brain catches up to him. It could be an enemy, he thinks while he sways on the edge of a step, clinging to the handrail with one hand. Maker, it _better_ be an enemy, because at least it would be something to _do_ , and he doesn’t dare hope for her return—

“Your new weapon of choice?” she says, grinning, though her eyes are tired. “A goblet? Better than a rose, I’ll give you tha—”

It clanks to the ground, forgotten. He’s crossed the yard before he even knows it, his arms closing around her waist while her legs hook around his hips. Their lips meet amidst a tangle of fumbling hands and snagging straps and buckles; her mouth is warm, and tastes of something sweet like apples or pears, even through the sharp scent of leather and steel. Somewhere at the far edge of what matters, the squire slinks away with her horse to the stables.

“You taste good,” she says between their mouths, then licks her lips. “Orlesian _cépage_?”

“ _Please_ ,” Alistair scoffs. “Only the finest Fereldan vintage for my queen.”

She smiles against his mouth. “Is that so? Then I’ll accept no less than the Theirin family’s royal blend.”

A scar now slants across her cheekbone, and as he carries her to the staircase, she feels lighter than he remembers, even in her Warden-Commander armour. He’ll feed the woman some goat cheese and honey from the comb once they get to their quarters. “Then you’re in luck,” he says. “Aged for a small eternity and now ripe for consumption.”

“I wasn’t even gone that long, love,” she teases, but her smile is soft and the torchlight gleams bright on her eyes.

Alistair grins past the knot in his throat. “Any moment away from you is too long.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
